Danice Allen (8 page)

It occurred to her that now that the stranger’s fever had abated, he might be cold also but was too soundly asleep to realize it. At the moment, he was covered only by a sheet and a thin blanket. She wasn’t about to neglect her duties as nurse again, so she unfolded another quilt that was hanging over the footboard of the bed and drew it up and over the stranger’s shoulders.

Tucking the blanket under his bewhiskered chin, resting her hands on his shoulders, and leaning close enough to admire the way his thick lashes feathered over his tan cheek, she couldn’t help but linger and look. But she lingered too long. Out from under the covers came his left arm, reaching around her shoulders as he’d done before and drawing her to his chest.

“Lie with me, sweetheart,” he murmured huskily.

“Indeed, I cannot,” Amanda said breathlessly, trying to pull away.

“Don’t play the tease with me, Angela,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know you want to. And I’m so cold….”

Amanda thought that for an unconscious man his strength was quite amazing. Every time she wriggled in an attempt to free herself, his hold on her tightened.

At this point, after hours of tending and worrying over the fellow, Amanda was bone weary. Caught in the stranger’s embrace, she was experiencing some new and pleasant sensations as well. Amanda had never in her entire life been held in such a manner. And even though he thought she was “Angela,” the circle of his arms warmed and comforted her.

Presently, tired of struggling and desperate for some sleep, she eased herself onto the bed, reached behind her for the extra quilt, snuggled her head into the hollow of the stranger’s neck, and went to sleep.

Jack was dreaming. He was in church, and an angel in a diaphanous white dress was floating overhead, singing a single hymn over and over again to the accompaniment of a gilded harp. The angel’s face was hidden behind a veil, but her voice had an ethereal quality that calmed and soothed him.

Then, suddenly, she was not an angel, but a bride … a bride marching up the aisle, her train sweeping behind her like an anemic witch’s cape, her head bobbing up and down in time to a militant tune.

He stood by the altar and waited … and sweated … the insides of his stomach sloshing like cream in a churn. He stuck his finger inside his tight collar and tried to breathe. But he couldn’t. He’d never breathe again because, in less time than it took to pull the legs off a spider, he’d be married. Married.
Married!

He fought hard to rise through the black, downy layers of unconsciousness. He needed to wake up before it was too late … before he was well and surely caught in the parson’s mousetrap.

The black turned to gray mist; then spots of light broke through, but his eyes were still closed and seemed determined to stay that way. His lids felt heavy and gritty, his mouth felt as dry as a bale of winter hay, and a dull ache pounded his temples with the mournful regularity of a drumbeat in a funeral march.

He must have been drinking last night, he reasoned … chirping merry till the crack of dawn, no doubt. And now he was paying for it. Would he ever learn?

With much effort, he opened his eyes. He blinked against the glare of sun spilling through a small, square window covered with a flimsy curtain. He had no trouble recognizing that he was in a rented room at a public inn.

As his eyes adjusted, his other senses kicked in. He could smell freshly laundered linen, and something sweeter and more fragrant. Something like … a woman.

His eyes suddenly focused, and literally right under his nose was the source of the teasing scent. Hair … pale blond, gloriously shiny hair just inches away.

Using his powers of deduction—which weren’t completely obliterated by the effects of alcohol—he knew that below the hair there had to be a face, and below the face a body … both of which he hoped were fetching.

His brows furrowed. He liked to think he had consistently good taste in females, but for some reason, he couldn’t remember. He shrugged, knowing his full faculties and capabilities would return in time. This certainly wasn’t the first morning he’d awakened feeling decidedly cup-shot.

One ability of which he was rather fond seemed to need no recuperative time period. Below the blanket he was nude … and aroused.

That the lady he held in his arms was dressed and above the blankets seemed odd, but he was willing to wait for an explanation. For now he’d rather do again what they’d obviously done already and he’d forgotten.

He bent and kissed the top of the blond head, the slight angling of his neck bringing a surprising twinge of sharp pain. He winced. “Damn every potent potable on the face of the earth,” he muttered thickly.

In time the pain abated, but he decided to move his hands for a while instead of his head. He began to explore the curves of the female in his arms, starting at the swell of her womanly hips, moving to the dip of her slim waist, then up to the firm roundness of her breasts. They were good breasts, healthy and resilient, not too big nor too small but just right….

She gave a soft little moan and shifted in his arms, her face now tilted so that he could look at her. She was lovely. And she wasn’t wearing a trace of cosmetics, which was highly unusual for a lightskirt of the sort that serviced public inns. He felt himself getting tighter, harder, and he decided that it was time to wake up Sleeping Beauty with the proverbial kiss.

But as he lowered his face to hers, her eyes suddenly opened. They were as blue as a robin’s egg, lined all round with spiky brown lashes. And they were filled with terror.

“Merciful heavens!” she screeched, pushing frantically at his chest, rolling off the bed, and springing to her feet, her long, tangled hair flying in the air. “Whatever do you think you’re
doing
?”

Confused and irritated, Jack sat up, his blanket falling to his waist … and his head
exploding
!

The sudden onslaught of excruciating pain struck him like a bolt of lightning. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the encroaching darkness that threatened to consume him again. At all costs, he had to avoid the darkness … and the dream.

His head fell to the pillow, and he reached instinctively toward the pain, bursts of blinding white playing against the dark curtain of his throbbing eyelids.

Just as his hand came into contact with a strip of padded cloth covering his forehead, he felt the woman’s small cool fingers circle his wrists, restraining him. “Don’t disturb the wound!” she beseeched. “Please, sir, you might start to bleed again!”

Jack’s eyes flew open. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded to know.

Her eyes widened. “Don’t you remember the accident?”

It was an effort to talk. Jack was nearly overcome by waves of nausea, and his tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“I need something to drink,” he croaked, then clamped his jaw shut and ground his teeth together till they squeaked. He refused to throw up. He
hated
throwing up.

“Here, take some of this,” said the woman in an urgent tone, placing the rim of a mug against his lips and gently tipping it.

As the liquid drenched his mouth and seared down his parched throat, Jack was aware at first only of the blessed quenching of his thirst. Then he tasted the stuff, and his stomach did another turn. He started choking and pushed the mug away.

“What the hell
is
that stuff?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Water from the trough?”

The woman puckered her lips disapprovingly and stood with her fists on her hips. “I am not accustomed to gentlemen cursing in my presence, sir, and I’d thank you very much if you’d refrain from doing so while we are forced to keep company! For your information, the liquid you just imbibed is a nourishing beverage the doctor recommended last night. He said I was to give it to you as soon as you would take it.”

“Well, I
won’t
take it. I’d rather have—”

“I know what you’d rather have,” the woman said tartly. “But you had far too much of
that
last night. Perhaps if you hadn’t been foxed, you’d have avoided the accident and neither of us would be in this predicament.”

By now Jack had figured out that the woman was not a doxy. No doxy he’d ever consorted with dressed in simple, severe black. Nor had he ever met a doxy who talked like she did, spewing out prim indignation like a regular jaw-me-dead.

So, she didn’t like his cursing, and she seemed miffed with him about something … something that had to do with the accident that had left him with this blasted head injury. His mind was a muddle, and he had a million questions. He knew that if he wanted the woman to cooperate and answer his questions
nicely
, he’d have to ask them
nicely.

With his head on the pillow and his eyes closed, the pain returned to a level he could tolerate. He was about to open his eyes again and make another go at requesting some tea—this time doing it like a gentleman would—when he felt the heavenly pressure of a cool, wet cloth on his brow. He looked up and saw the woman bending over him with a contrite expression.

“I’m very sorry I snapped at you,” she said, dabbing the refreshing cloth here and there on his face, “but I’m
very
tired, you see. I was up half the night tending you through a fever. I’m extremely untidy this morning, too,” she continued, self-consciously pushing back the tangled hair that fell in abundance over both shoulders. “And that
always
puts a lady out of sorts.”

“You look fine to me,” he murmured.

“Apparently so,” she said, rosy spots appearing on both cheeks. “When I woke up, I noticed you were … er …
touching
me.”

“I beg your pardon for that,” he answered awkwardly. “I was confused. I thought you were … someone else.” He couldn’t very well tell her he’d mistaken her for a lightskirt.

She looked thoughtful as she redipped the cloth in a basin of water, wrung it out, and bathed his neck. “Considering your condition, I’m surprised you had the strength to attempt … well,
you know,”
she commented shyly.

Jack smiled. “Men are surprisingly resourceful when it comes to finding strength for … well,
you know.”

The woman blushed again, then apparently decided that she’d had enough improper conversation and assumed a businesslike mien. She returned the cloth to the basin and stood up, elbows out, hands clasped loosely together at her waist. “You are doubtless thirsty and hungry, sir. Is there something you drink
besides
liquor?”

“I drink tea,” he answered, amused by the contrast between her prissy language and her disheveled, almost wanton appearance. “And I’m famished. Have the proprietor of this establishment send me up a roasted chicken or something.”

“You’ll have weak tea and barley water, sir,” said the woman, talking down her pert nose. “And nothing else till the doctor says otherwise.”

“Damn the old sawbones,” muttered Jack. “All doctors are quacks.”

“Excuse me while I tidy up,” said the woman, ignoring his surly comment as she stepped to a nearby mirror and picked up a brush. “I’ll just make myself presentable, then order your tea. In the meantime, I suggest you rest.”

“I don’t want to rest,” Jack said irritably. “I want some answers. I want to know how I got here and where I am.”

“I have questions for you, too, sir,” said the woman, brushing out her tangled hair. “But you’ll feel much better after you’ve had a little nourishment. You might not wish to admit it, but you’re in a rather weakened condition just now.”

Jack wanted to argue, but he was too tired. So he simply lay in the bed and watched her rhythmically pull the soft bristles of the brush through the long wavy length of her hair. Watching was mesmerizing, comforting, relaxing. He thought he must have always enjoyed watching women brush their hair, but for some reason he couldn’t recall a single experience doing so, nor even conjure up a single female face that was familiar.

It was all very odd, thought Jack, growing drowsy despite himself. His thoughts seemed so scrambled, and images that he should be able to easily grasp hovered just out of reach. Perhaps after he’d eaten something his thoughts would fall into a logical order and his memories would quit being so damned elusive. And perhaps if he closed his eyes for a moment …

While the stranger slept, Amanda stoked up the fire, gave herself a hasty sponge bath behind a folded screen, changed into a fresh black dress, fashioned her hair into a neat coil at the nape of her neck, then ordered tea and breakfast from the chambermaid who scratched on the door at the stroke of seven. It seemed that after interrupting Amanda while she was undressing the stranger yesterday, the maid was cured of entering without knocking first.

While Amanda waited for the tea and the breakfast tray, Theo showed up. Realizing that the stranger would need to take care of personal matters, Amanda asked Theo to wake the gent and help him with the chamber pot while she took a morning stroll. She felt she was already too intimate with the man, and she had no desire to embarrass either of them by taking on
all
the duties of a nurse.

When Amanda returned to the room, the maid had arrived with the breakfast tray. As the maid prepared to leave, Amanda remembered that the stranger’s shirt needed to be laundered, and she handed it over with instructions to make it fit to be worn as quickly as possible. She had no desire to be confronted with the stranger’s bare chest any longer than necessary.

With Theo hovering at the end of the bed with a scowl that could scare off bears, Amanda simultaneously ate her own breakfast while helping the stranger manage his.

“It’s very rude of you to eat that in front of me,” the stranger said peevishly, swallowing the last dregs of his barley water.

“Eggs would only make you sick,” said Amanda, dabbing a napkin to her mouth. “By this evening I daresay you’ll be able to eat something solid.”

“I certainly intend to,” he said in a tone that implied he’d brook no opposition. He pushed himself to sit taller against the pillows, and as he scooted up the bedclothes fell away to expose a goodly portion of his chest. Amanda felt her color rising—remembering just how much of his body she’d seen last night—and she resolved to look him straight in the eye and nowhere else.